


Traffic Cones and Match Sticks

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 15:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Too much tequila and a motel room in the height of the Florida summer.





	Traffic Cones and Match Sticks

It wasn’t the smell of coffee or her car-crash breath that woke her. It was the blinding light and she turned over to shield her face from the glare. Mulder laughed.  
Wait. Mulder laughed. “What are you doing in here, Mulder?” She couldn’t prise open her eyes and the noise of her temples throbbing prevented her from hearing what he said. He did, however, put a black coffee on the bedside table. “What the fuck happened?”  
“You don’t remember, Scully?”  
Her eyelids split open and she spied the empty Tequila bottle on the sideboard, the pile of takeout cartons, the scattered clothing over floor and furniture. Her panties decorating the lampshade. Oh hell. She buried her head under the sheet but it was stifling. She was wearing his shirt. Sleeves still rolled up. She inhaled. Mulderscent. Oh shit. She peeked out again and saw what he was wearing. Neon orange wife beater and plaid shorts. Oh fuck.  
“Mulder, you look like a Scottish traffic cone.” She heaved herself up, head swimming, guts tumbling. The coffee was piping hot but strong and she sipped gratefully, running back through the events of yesterday, the case, the result, the searing heat, the cool inside of the liquor store, the phone call to the local Thai restaurant. Then a blank.  
He was still laughing when he sat on the end of the bed, putting the carry bag he’d been holding on the carpet. Her glutes ached. Her arms and shoulders ached. Her inner thighs chafed.   
“Mulder, did we…?”  
She didn’t really need the confirmation. The colour on his face and the burning inside told her everything. She followed his gaze to the bin, lying on its side so its contents spilled out. Twice, then. She swallowed. Her throat scraped. She coughed.  
“I’m sorry I don’t remember, Mulder. I feel terrible.” She flopped her head into her hands and sniffed. He moved closer and lifted an arm around her shoulder. She let herself fall against him. Breathed him in. An image of him over her moving, rhythmical and sensuous. One of them, reverse cowgirl, and watching their bodies in the mirror. A slower one of him stroking her hair as she dozed in his arms. She didn’t want to open her eyes again.  
“It’s okay, Scully. I won’t hold it against you. I guess I’m just not a memorable guy.”  
Her head screamed every time she moved, but she turned to him. “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forget you in that outfit. I can’t believe you’ve packed this kind of thing and I’ve never noticed before. I guess I never pegged you for a neon vest kind of guy, Mulder.”  
“But tartan shorts don’t surprise you?” he chuffed, then tilted her chin with his finger. His eyes were narrowed. “I didn’t expect that…what happened last night. But it was wonderful, Scully. I want you to know that.”  
“I always thought it would be. I clearly enjoyed the tequila too. And did I perform some kind of burlesque routine or did I just throw my clothes off in all directions?” She tried to laugh but it hurt too much.  
He snuffled into her neck. “I think I did that. We…undressed each other and I told you I’d always had a fantasy about you wearing my shirt. And you did a fashion parade. And we just…it just…we kissed and….”  
She nodded. His lips against hers, his fingers at her breasts, his knee between her thighs, his hand on her ass, his thumb on her clit. She remembered. She blushed. She let out an embarrassed laugh against his neck.  
“Housekeeping can clean and press our suits in a couple of hours. Our plane leaves at 8pm. I got you a change of clothes for the rest of the day. There wasn’t much choice in the local store.” He pulled away and handed her the bag, then picked up the clothes strewn around the room.  
She slunk into the bathroom. He was sitting on the bed wearing a Muldergrin when she came back out.  
“Mulder…what the actual fuck?” She looked down at herself, neon pink vest cut to the midriff, white bra straps showing, white flared shorts in fabric so flimsy the black panties he’d selected might as well have been on the outside.   
He stood up and took his hands in his. “Scully, you look like an Irish matchstick.”


End file.
